


in eager strife

by curiositykilled



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon Compliant, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Implied Relationships, In a way, Maria can see the future, Should probably know canon, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:53:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time she sees him, she doesn’t. There’s a crowd of white-robed scholars, heads bowed and lips moving in near-silent mantras, but all she can see is a bolt of jagged red scarring the black and white threads of her life’s tapestry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in eager strife

                The first time she sees him, she doesn’t. There’s a crowd of white-robed scholars, heads bowed and lips moving in near-silent mantras, but all she can see is a bolt of jagged red scarring the black and white threads of her life’s tapestry.

(She’s never been one for weaving, but all her eyes see are the strands that connect and overlap and flow into life.)

                She pauses only a moment, then, and shakes her head clear. There’s nothing. There’s absolutely nothing, she tells herself. _~~Liar~~_. Robert calls for Mathias, and she’s off, hurrying to do his bidding.

(It may not be the illustrious life her mother foresaw, but she can’t pretend that she isn’t happier darting through the crowds like a runaway shuttle with a metal tail.)

                It’s not altogether quiet at night, what with the snores and snuffles of men rolling in their sleep, trying to find comfort in a desert hell. She often wakes to imagined sounds of steps outside her tent, pausing just before her door. There’s never a shadow or footprints when she checks. She shakes it off and binds her chest and refuses to let any man best her because she is no fragile flower for them to pluck and crush between their forefinger and thumb. She tries twice as hard as them and never feels strong enough, always feels too weak, too inexperienced, too _little_ for the role she seeks. It makes her sick.

                Somewhere, somehow, she knows she is strong – how else could she have left her home, her family, her everything-she-ever-knew? No weakling – man or woman – could do as she has, but on the nights when she nurses her bruises and cracked ribs and flagging spirits, somehow, that isn’t enough.

                On these nights, she sits sleepless on her bedroll and tries to imagine herself in the life she once would have had. It always startles her how easily she can see her children. Always, there are two boys – clever and quick ~~just like their father~~ and so detailed that she almost wonders if that is not her reality and this world of metal and death is but a dream.

(The red that twines and twists around these daydreams, though, assures her that it is not real. ~~At least, not yet.~~ )

                Motherhood is easy to imagine, but she is no fool. She knows that only a truly desperate man ~~a sodomite, a heretic, a failure~~ would be willing to take in marriage a woman who has so long played a man. Cross-dressing is perfectly fine – when men take a woman’s form to play a role. A woman in man’s clothing must have something wrong with her, must be demented or ill in her head.

                It doesn’t trouble her too much. The thought of motherhood is a wistful one permissible because she is on the outside and sees only the golden glow of loving families, but she is well aware of the strife and trouble mothers face, and she prefers the trials that can be won with a sword.

                Still, some nights, it is the thought of scarred lips and curious eyes against a backdrop of red that lulls her to sleep with the sound of her name whispered in pain, in apology, in goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Siegfried Sassoon's poem, "Blind." To be totally honest, the poem has little to do with this but it reminded me of Altair, so~
> 
> Anyway, I've had this sitting on my computer for over a year, so here it is! Admittedly, there has been no beta-ing or anything, so my apologies for any glaring errors.


End file.
